


stick the blind landing

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Winter Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:00:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “I’m a snowboarder. That’s like, professional posturing.”





	stick the blind landing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> happy valentine's day <3
> 
> i figured since i had the bug for this au i might as well go through with it lmao
> 
> i leaned heavily on [this article](http://time.com/5155296/shaun-white-snowboarding-rules-explained/) because i know approximately zero things about snowboarding so feel free to correct me if i'm wrong

Officially, Masako’s there for a current student; officially she’s only got one who had made it past qualifying. He’s another Olympics away from sniffing a medal (at least), and his eleventh-place finish last round had ensured him being shut out of the top three quickly. But he’s a good kid, resilient (not the way they say it shining the word up with shoe polish that’ll rub right off) and better than they’d said he’d be. He exhales, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket. He’s not saying there’s still an awfully high chance for a medal for Japan; it’s not even what he’s thinking. Or what Masako’s thinking. She’s waiting for the next-to-last competitor, but because he’s Himuro. Because she’d watched him in the qualifying round and the first two runs here, oozing poise, twists and turns and stuck blind landings (he always did like those, bleak humor or no), and it had been just like last year’s Winter X Games. There was something he’d held back—he’d done his damn best to win without whatever that was, pulled what he’d thought he could out of his sleeves and ended up in second place, both times. If he’s playing the long game, there’s no better finish than the Olympic medal round.

Himuro waits at the top; he looks loose. Ready. Masako hasn’t had a chance to talk to Alex yet about whatever it is she’d taught him, or he’d picked up, but it feels like something good. Masako wrinkles her nose; she’s not the kind of superstitious person who can pretend to sense performance in the atmosphere. Himuro’s helmet is on all the way, but he turns it so the visor’s facing toward her. She can’t doubt he’s looking at her, but she can ignore the heat rising to her face. It’s like a spotlight on her, a decade removed from when she’d spun and somersaulted above a halfpipe herself, and she sucks in a breath. The air is cold against her teeth.

Himuro starts as he always does, looks like he’s just waiting for the momentum but it’s a marvel of restraint and positioning up until he launches into the air, and right off that first bit of momentum goes into a McTwist 720. He lands easy, and the crowd’s still clamoring forward to look closer. Himuro doesn’t make them wait. This isn’t the practiced technical finish Masako had spent two years pushing him beyond; this isn’t the rough but genuine stuff he’d only show her in practice, half-formed. This isn’t the teasing kind of placid that says he has more to show. It’s all here, in ways Masako would bet real money (hell, some of her own medals) he hasn’t quite attempted before. He twists and turns in the air, one, another, two blind landings in a row, going backwards down the half-pipe like a hockey defenseman skating back into the zone, like it’s almost natural for him, but he’s not even pretending it is. It’s about winning; it’s never not (never with him, never here), but it’s about how much he loves this, how he’s trying to drag out his time in the air so he can get more points but because he loves the sensation, harnessing his own gravity before the freefall.

Kagami’s still got a run left, but he’s got to score—Masako does the mental calculations—98 to match Himuro. That’s not happening, and Kagami probably knows it. He’s waiting with his board; Alex is talking to Himuro, and there’s a look on his face that’s more than respect and affection, and Masako wonders if Himuro’s seen it.

Kagami’s run is good; it’s his best today (Himuro couldn’t be paid a higher compliment than someone else trying riskier jumps and catching more air, even if catching air is Kagami’s mainstay). He scores a 97.1.

* * *

It’s getting dark when Himuro finds her, out by the ski slopes watching the downhill practices. For all that people say about the dangers of snowboarding, going downhill that fast with slats strapped to your feet looks a hell of a lot more intense. But it’s intense for the coaches and onlookers, too, and Himuro—hero of the hour in the Japanese media—is easily overlooked. He raises one gloved hand in greeting, and Masako waits for him to come closer.

“What took you so long?” she says.

It comes out more ambiguous than she’d been aiming; she means the snowboarding stuff, letting himself do it properly like he had—if he did that every run he could routinely smash all the other scores. But he’d come, she supposes, to talk about that.

“I didn’t want to do it too soon,” he says. “It’s not as impressive if you see me try and fail, and then try and fail, and then try and succeed.”

Masako raises an eyebrow. “You impressed me, and I’ve seen you in far worse places.”

(For a minute, she wonders if she’s walked into a trap, but Himuro grins, a little sheepish, and maybe she’ll forgive him for this.)

“It’s been four years,” he says. “I’ve had time to get farther than that.”

Masako inclines her head; it’s true—the person he’d been when he’d left had been a different one. He doesn’t look much different, twenty-five from twenty-one, but he carries himself better, far fewer than twenty chips on each shoulder—it had taken Masako just about as long to shake her own.

Himuro takes his other hand out of his pocket. In his palm is the gold medal, ribbon wrapped around it. He holds it forward, as if presenting it to Masako.

“I won this for you.”

Masako stares. Himuro’s arm is steady.

“You won it for yourself.”

He inclines his head, but doesn’t move his hand. “I couldn’t have done any of that if you hadn’t pushed me to. I wanted to pay it back.”

“If you’re fishing for compliments, Himuro—”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I also wanted to show you what I can do. As a man.”

Masako’s cheeks are threatening to flare again like a fucking geyser. “I never thought you were the posturing type.”

“I’m a snowboarder. That’s like, professional posturing.”

After that, he says nothing, but the medal’s still in his hand and his arm’s just starting to tremble and he’s giving Masako room, letting her take her own run at the halfpipe. She wants to say no, no way in hell, he’s too young, just a kid (that’s hardly true if at all), when they’d met she’d been thirty-six and he’d been nineteen and how far removed from that are they? They’re standing at the top of a mountain with Himuro’s gold medal. If she were to say no—this isn’t the teenage him who’d peered at her in a way he’d thought was inconspicuous (and perhaps had been relatively). She hasn’t been his coach in four years, and there is so much between them but it can all fit in the gap between her glove and his. She reaches out.

Himuro doesn’t let her take it. He unfurls the ribbon and moves to place it around her neck, and Masako has to step closer so he can get it around her hat. She looks up when he’s done, just enough time to accept his kiss. His lips are dry and chapped by the wind; they stick to hers for a second when he pulls away.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way,” says Himuro.


End file.
